Perfect

(content warning: terminal illness, spousal loss)

What would you choose as your last meal? I’ve asked this, and I’ve been asked, and I’ve answered in many different ways. A bowl of chocolate ice cream, nachos, lobster tail, and it’s always been in good fun, or a good conversation starter, but sometimes I’ve wondered if we’d really choose that, or if it was just our favorite dish of the week.

Would I really choose lobster? Or would I choose my mother’s meatballs? The ones I haven’t tasted since she passed away when I was just fourteen. Even though I hated the taste of them. Just because they remind me of the way she hummed when she made them and of safer times.

I never assumed I’d know the answer. But now I do, because I’m making someone’s last meal, and it’s nothing more than cup noodles and boiled eggs.

And as I lower the eggs into the boiling water, warming my hands in the heat above it, I remember doing the same on our first wedding anniversary when you, my love, my husband, my everything, came home from work, tired and frowning right until you saw me making food.

You weren’t upset about the simplicity, you didn’t ask to go out to eat. You knew we couldn’t afford it, that we had nothing but our studio apartment and each other.

Eggs were cheap then, they aren’t so much anymore, but we’re financially better off now, so I add an extra to the water, even though I know you won’t be eating it.

I watch them bounce on the bottom of the pot, the biggest one cracking just enough for a bubble of egg whites to flow out and cook instantaneously, sealing the wound.

I tap the spoon I used to lower the eggs into the pot on the edge to shake the drops off, placing it on a napkin as I go to reach for the kettle. I remember you did this part. You wanted to be a part of cooking your meals, even if it was just reaching over my shoulder and pressing a single button. Sometimes you’d even playfully wrestle me to get to it, and the fact that you can’t anymore, that you’re lying in a bed in the other room, in an apartment too big for me when you’re gone, is unbearable, and as I wait for the water to boil, I raise my head and let my tears flow.

The only sound is the induction burner sizzling as a drop flies out of the pot of eggs and onto it, but I don’t look. Only when it happens again do I turn the heat down, and at the same time, the kettle clicks, signaling that it’s done, and my moment of pause is over.

I wipe my eyes, though the tears don’t stop, only slow, and I pour the water into the noodles with nothing more than the added seasoning packet and a dash of soy sauce, like you always liked it. You used to remind me, and when I wanted to measure it in spoons so I could do it the same way every time, you told me not to. It stressed me, but you said that was the joy of cooking, that something as simple as cup noodles was a little different every time, and I realize that even after you’re gone, I will keep doing it this way, and it’s strange, and heavy, and comforting, and finally a small, painful smile tugs at the corner of my lips. It doesn’t stop the tears, doesn’t make the fact that this is your last day by my side any easier, but it gives me something to hold onto while I wait for the noodles to soften, stirring absentmindedly with a fork so all the noodles gets cooked evenly.

I go through the next steps. Pouring the finished noodles into a cold bowl, peeling the eggs, cutting them in half, placing them with the noodles, and adding a little pepper to the yolks. But I don’t take it to you yet. I want it to cool down so you don’t burn yourself. You can’t sit up properly anymore, and I’d hate for you to get burned.

All the thoughts make me sigh, and I close my eyes to drift again, inhaling the scent of the noodles and the soup.

“Perfect. It tastes perfect.” You said back then, sitting in front of me, slurping it down while I sat across from you, twirling the noodles around in the soup, upset that I hadn’t been able to do something better for you. You noticed, and you reached across the table to take my hand, and you made me feel better.

The food hadn’t been important, it still wasn’t. It was the love, and now also of the memories. That was why, when you had woken up this morning and said that you could feel that today was the day, this had been what you asked for, with the biggest smile you could manage, and that look of adoration in your eyes still your eyes.

I tap my nails on the ceramic bowl, and I lift the whole thing to my lips to give it another taste. It’s closer to lukewarm now.

I look all around me. This kitchen, this counter, now bearing the evidence of this meal. The very last meal I will be cooking for you.

The pot, the eggshells, the empty noodle cup. I want to snap a picture of it all to hang on the wall when you’re gone, but I know it’s a silly idea. Still, I don’t know how I will make myself clean it up later.

I grab a spoon, and I take the bowl to our room.

You’re asleep, but I see you breathing, and I lower the sides of the hospital bed you’re now sleeping in to sit by your side. It slowly rouses you, and with unfocused eyes you search for me, and when you find me you smile, weakly, but it’s there.

We don’t say much as I push the button to raise you slightly.

I scoop up the golden liquid and bring it to your lips, and you slurp it down, and every time a drop runs down your chin I wipe it away.

You don’t eat the noodles, you don’t take a bite of the eggs, you just drink the soup I gently feed you, but I can tell by the look in your eyes that it’s enough. It’s what you wanted.

When I’ve fed half you lean back, unable to take more.

Whenever you close your eyes it scares me, but you’re not done. You let out a sigh after not breathing for a couple of seconds, and open your eyes to look at me, and all you say is a gentle, quiet “Perfect…”